Work Text:
If you're getting yourself wet for me, I guess you're all mine.
Harry’s POV
The lights go down, and a collective hush falls over the premiere audience. Harry feels his heart begin to thrum against his ribs, a frantic bird trapped in a cage of bone. He sits rigidly in his seat, the plush velvet a luxury he can’t appreciate. Beside him, Gemma is a warm, solid presence, her arm linked through his, but he feels utterly tense. They are about to watch the third episode of Borderlines Season 3. They are about to watch him and Louis.
The first two episodes fly by in a haze of sharp dialogue and lingering glances. On screen, Yarri and Kael orbit each other, a binary star system of hatred and reluctant respect. The audience gasps and laughs at all the right moments, completely captivated by the forbidden romance blooming between the Alpha soldier and the Omega spy. Harry knows they’re good. He and Louis have poured every repressed feeling, every stolen glance, and every unspoken word from the past three years into these characters.
Then, the third episode begins. The tone shifts. The lighting becomes softer, more intimate. A haunting cello score weaves through the sparse dialogue. Harry feels a familiar slick warmth begin to pool low in his belly. He knows what’s coming. He lived it, breathed it, and came apart for it.
On screen, Kael backs Yarri into a secluded alcove. The air crackles with unspoken need.
“I can’t keep pretending,” Kael growls, his voice raw with a hunger that feels terrifyingly authentic.
“So, why do you?” Yarri whispers, and it’s both a challenge and a surrender.
When their lips meet, the theatre goes utterly silent. It’s not a kiss, it’s a collision. It’s teeth and tongue and desperation. Clothes aren’t removed. They’re ripped away, the sound of tearing fabric echoing in the quiet room. The camera doesn’t shy away. It lingers on the frantic pulse in Louis’ throat, the way Harry’s fingers dig into his biceps, the sheen of sweat on their skin as they move together on the narrow cot.
This is what Borderlines is famous for. Raw, unflinching, almost pornographic sex scenes. But this is different. This is them.
Harry watches, detached, as if he’s floating above his own body. He sees the way Louis’ character, Kael, spreads Harry’s legs, the look of feral reverence on his face. He sees his own character, Yarri, arch his back, a perfect, agonized curve of pleasure as Kael enters him. The camera angle shifts, becoming more explicit, more honest. It shows the slick glistening on Harry’s thighs, the way his body yields to the thick, insistent pressure of Louis’ cock.
He remembers the feeling. He remembers the overwhelming burn as Louis pushed into him for the first time on that closed set, the way his body had stretched to accommodate him, the slick gushing out to ease the way. He remembers the guttural groan Louis had let out, a sound that was all Alpha, all possession, and nothing like Kael. He remembers the desperate, mind-blanking pleasure of being filled so completely, of being taken.
The camera zooms in on Harry’s face, contorted in ecstasy. He remembers Louis whispering in his ear, off-script, “That’s it, love, so fucking beautiful for me,” his voice a rough rumble against his skin. He remembers the overwhelming urge to beg for Louis’ knot, to be claimed and tied and filled, and the monumental effort it took to keep it for the camera, to make Yarri’s pleasure look like a performance and not the earth-shattering reality it was.
The scene builds to a fever pitch. The rhythmic slap of skin on skin is loud in the theatre’s perfect acoustics. Harry can feel the phantom sensation, the ghost of Louis’ hips pounding into him, the drag of his thick cock against his sensitive inner walls. He sees the moment on screen when Kael sinks his teeth into Yarri’s mating gland, not a claiming bite, but a mark of possession. The cry that tears from Yarri’s lips is so genuine, so filled with a pained, shattered ecstasy, that Harry feels his own cunt clench in response.
It’s the exact sound he made when Louis’ knot had begun to swell inside him, stretching him to his limit.
When the screen cuts to black, the silence is absolute. No one moves. No one breathes. It’s a full ten seconds before the theatre erupts. The applause is thunderous, a wave of sound so loud it feels physical. It’s a roar of shocked, exhilarated approval.
The lights come up, and the spell is broken. Harry blinks, forcing himself back into his body, the actor. He pastes on a smile and stands, clapping along with everyone else. He turns to Gemma, expecting her to be cheering too.
She’s still sitting. Her eyes are wide, her mouth slightly agape. She looks from the screen, now showing the credits, to him, and back again. There’s a question in her gaze, one she can’t yet form.
“Haz,” she breathes, her voice barely a whisper. “What… what was that?”
He just shrugs, a casual movement that feels completely false. “That’s season three, Gem. Probably will be the audience’s favorite. What’d you think?”
She shakes her head, as if trying to clear it. “I think… I think I need a drink.”
The rest of the premiere passes in a blur of flashing cameras and forced smiles. Harry poses with the cast, Louis’ arm slung his shoulders like it’s the most natural thing in the world. Louis’ smile is bright, his eyes sparkling, but Harry can feel the tension thrumming through him, a silent acknowledgment of what they just unleashed on the world.
“Did you see their faces?” Harry murmurs to him as they stand for a group photo, his lips close to Louis’ ear. “I think some people forgot to breathe.”
“Job well done, then,” Louis replies, his voice light. He gives Harry’s shoulder a friendly squeeze, the kind of gesture that says ‘we’re just mates,’ and hopes it’s convincing.
Later, in the car on the way home, the city lights smear across the windows. The radio is off. The silence is heavy, charged with everything Gemma hasn’t said. Harry stares out the window, pretending to be lost in thought, but he’s waiting. He knows it’s coming.
Finally, she can’t hold it in anymore.
“Alright, Harry. Spill.”
He turns his head slowly. “Spill what?”
“Don’t play dumb with me,” she says, her voice sharp. She’s twisted in her seat to face him, her arms crossed over her chest. “The sex scene. With you and Louis.”
“What about it?” he asks, feigning confusion. “It’s a sex scene. We’ve done them before in other projects. The show’s literally praised for that.”
“Not like that,” she says, her eyes narrowing. “Never like that. The other scenes… they’re realistic, sure. They’re hot. But that… Haz, that looked real.”
He lets out a short, humorless laugh, but a hot flush creeps up his neck that he can’t control. “We’re good actors, Gems. We have a fantastic intimacy coordinator and a director who knows exactly what she wants. The show is famous for this. What’s so different about this one?”
“Everything!” she exclaims, throwing her hands up. “The way he looked at you. It wasn’t Kael looking at Yarri. It was Louis looking at Harry. And you… God, Harry, the way you responded. You may be a fantastic actor, and you are, but it’s so hard to fake the pleasure of actually being fucked by a real dick, of having a real thick dick pounding you inside, of taking an actual Alpha’s knot.”
Her words are blunt, crude, and they hit him like a punch to the gut. He feels the flush deepen, and he’s grateful for the darkness of the car.
He shrugs again, the gesture feeling tired and repetitive. “Believe what you want to believe, Gem. We’re just doing our jobs. We got into character. It’s called method acting.”
Gemma scoffs, sinking back into her seat. She stares out the windshield, but Harry knows she’s not seeing the road. “Right. Method acting. Sure.”
They don’t speak again for the rest of the ride. The silence is a chasm between them. Harry knows she’s still turning it over in her mind, replaying the scene, dissecting every frame, every expression. And he can’t blame her.
He can’t tell her the truth.
He can’t tell her that, in a moment of what he called ‘pure, unadulterated artistic genius,’ but really just stupid and sexually frustrated, he and Louis had suggested they push the boundaries of realism. He can’t tell her that he and Louis, in a private meeting fueled by adrenaline and a dangerous, unspoken attraction, had been so eager.
He can’t tell her that for three hours, on a closed set with only a minimal, sworn-to-secrecy crew, the line between Kael and Yarri and Louis and Harry had not just been blurred, but completely obliterated.
He can’t tell her that yes. During the filming of the scene… he did in fact truly get fucked by Louis.
He can’t tell her that the scene they just watched, the one that had silenced a room of a thousand people, was not a simulation. It was a recording. He has seen the raw, unedited footage, the version that will never see the light of day, where there is no clever camera work to hide the truth.
In that version, you can see everything. You can see Louis’ actual dick, slick with Harry’s arousal, pounding into Harry’ slick cunt. You can see the moment his knot began to form, the base of him swelling as he drove deep, and the way Harry’s body seized, his back bowing as he came with a scream that was entirely his own.
He can’t tell Gemma any of that. Right now he knows she already thinks Harry is stupid.
So he just stares out the window, watching the city bleed past, and keeps the most intimate secret of his life locked away where it belongs, with the memory of Louis’ skin under his hands and the taste of his sweat on his tongue.
It takes less than two hours after getting home before memories break loose, spilling into reality, though.
The television blares, some forgettable action movie filling the suite with artificial explosions and dramatic music. It’s a pathetic attempt at a soundtrack for what’s really happening. Harry can’t even follow the plot. All he can focus on is the obscene, wet slap of skin on skin, a rhythm far more compelling than anything Hollywood could produce.
He’s sprawled on his back on the couch, the velvet fabric surely ruined beneath him. One leg is hooked over Louis’ shoulder, the angle so deep it borders on painful, but it’s a pain he craves. His other leg is wrapped tight around Louis’ lower back, heel digging into his ass, pulling him impossibly closer with every thrust. His silk nightgown is a useless scrap of fabric bunched around his waist, the delicate straps pulled down to expose his chest. His knickers are shoved to the side, the lace cutting into his skin, but he doesn’t care. All that matters is the thick, unrelenting cock currently rearranging his insides.
Louis is a force of nature above him. His joggers are discarded somewhere on the floor, but he’s still wearing his black t-shirt, the soft cotton stretched tight over his shoulders. Harry’s fingers are clawed into the material, twisting it, holding on for dear life as Louis fucks into him with a desperate, starving intensity. It’s been like this ever since that day on set. The dam they’d so carefully built for years has not just broken. It’s been completely obliterated, and now there’s nothing left but the raw, untamed flood of their desire.
“Look at you,” Louis grits out, his voice a low, rough pant against Harry’s ear. He shifts his hips, grinding in deep, and Harry cries out, a broken, high-pitched sound. “So fucking wet for me. Dripping all over the couch like a little slut. You hear that? Hear how sloppy your cunt is for my cock?”
Harry can’t form words. He just whimpers, his head thrown back, his eyes rolling into his skull. He can hear it. He can feel it. The slick gushes out of him with every powerful thrust of Louis’ hips, a filthy, squelching sound that should be mortifying. His cunt is overflowing, stretched obscenely around the wide girth of Louis’ alpha cock, a perfect, punishing fit. He already came once, embarrassingly fast, when Louis had reached between them to rub mercilessly at his clit. He’d squirted, a gush of fluid soaking Louis’ abdomen and the couch beneath them, but Louis hadn’t even paused. He’d just fucked him through it, chasing his own pleasure, dragging Harry’s overstimulated body along for the ride.
And now the pressure is building again, a tidal wave gathering low in his belly.
“Louis, please,” Harry sobs, his hands sliding up to tangle in Louis’ hair, pulling his head down. “Please, I can’t… again…”
“Yeah, you can,” Louis growls, his teeth grazing Harry’s collarbone. He mouths at Harry’s nipple, sucking the peaked bud into his mouth, his tongue swirling around it. Harry’s small breast jiggles with the force of his thrusts, a mesmerizing, debauched sight that Louis seems to get off on. “You’re gonna come on my dick again. Gonna milk me with this tight little omega pussy until I can’t think straight.”
The dirty words, spoken in that rough voice, are what undo him. Louis shifts, changing the angle just slightly, and the head of his cock slams directly into Harry’s most sensitive spot. It’s like an electric shock. Harry’s entire body bows off the couch, a silent scream tearing from his throat as his second orgasm rips through him. It’s even more intense than the first, a violent, clenching wave of pleasure that steals his breath and his sanity. His cunt spasms and clenches rhythmically around Louis’ cock, pulsing as he comes, a fresh wave of slick gushing out to coat them both.
“Fuck, yes! That’s it, take it,” Louis snarls, his rhythm finally faltering. He drives into Harry one last time, a deep, punishing thrust that feels like it’s splitting him in two, and then he stills. Harry feels it then, the most primal part of the act. The base of Louis’ cock begins to swell, stretching him even wider, locking them together. The knot.
A choked moan escapes Harry’s lips as the knot expands, pressing against his inner walls, anchoring Louis deep inside him. It’s an overwhelming feeling of fullness, of possession, of being utterly and completely claimed. Louis collapses onto him, his full weight pinning Harry to the couch, his face buried in the crook of Harry’s neck. They’re both panting, chests heaving, bodies slick with sweat.
For a moment, the only sound is the movie on the TV and their ragged breathing. Harry can feel Louis’ heart hammering against his own. The knot pulses, a steady, throbbing pressure that sends little aftershocks of pleasure through Harry’s spent body.
Then, a horrifying thought cuts through the post-orgasmic haze. Gemma. She’s in the guest bedroom, just down the hall.
He’d been so loud. The slapping of their skin, his cries, Louis’ guttural grunts. There’s no way. No way she didn’t hear him.
Panic, cold and sharp, begins to pierce through the warm, fuzzy cloud of his bliss. He tenses, his hands still clutching at Louis’ shirt. He can’t move, not with the knot tying them together. He’s trapped, impaled on Louis’ cock, with the very real possibility that his sister just heard him get fucked into oblivion in the next room. When he just denied this happening not even four hours ago.
Louis seems to sense his shift. He lifts his head, his blue eyes soft and hazy in the dim light. He presses a gentle kiss to Harry’s sweaty temple.
“What’s wrong?” he murmurs, his voice thick and sated.
“Gemma,” Harry whispers, the word a horrified confession. “Louis… she must have heard.”
Louis just stares at him for a long moment, a slow, lazy grin spreading across his face. He shifts his hips slightly, and the knot tugs inside Harry, making him gasp.
“Good,” Louis says, his voice a low, possessive rumble. “Let her hear.”
The first thing Harry registers is the dull, persistent ache between his legs. It’s a deep, satisfying throb, a physical memory of being stretched and filled and used thoroughly. He shifts in the bed, the soft sheets a stark contrast to the raw, tender feeling of his body. Louis is still asleep beside him, one arm thrown possessively over Harry’s waist, his face soft and peaceful in the morning light. A bruise is blooming on Harry’s hip, a dark purple fingerprint from where Louis had gripped him too tightly. There are more, he knows. A constellation of them on his thighs, his ass, his chest.
Carefully, he extricates himself from Louis’ hold and slips out of bed. His legs feel unsteady, a faint, tell-tale limp already present in his step. He pulls on a clean silk nightdress, the fabric cool against his heated skin, and quietly pads out of the bedroom, closing the door softly behind him.
The suite is quiet. He can hear the low hum of the city outside, but inside, there’s only the sound of his own bare feet on the hardwood floor. He heads for the kitchen, needing a cup of tea to fortify himself for the conversation he knows is inevitable.
He finds Gemma at the small kitchen table, a steaming mug cradled in her hands. She’s already dressed, her expression unreadable as she stares out the window. She doesn’t turn when he enters, but he knows she’s aware of him. The air is thick with unspoken words.
Harry pauses in the doorway, his heart starting to beat a little faster. He considers turning back, hiding in his room until Louis wakes up, but that would be cowardly. He forces himself to move forward, playing it casual as he goes to the kettle.
“Morning,” he says, his voice coming out softer than he intended.
“Morning,” Gemma replies, her tone clipped. She finally turns to look at him, her eyes sharp and knowing. She takes a slow sip of her tea, her gaze sweeping over him, from his sleep-mussed hair down to the hem of his nightdress. Harry feels suddenly exposed, as if she can see every mark Louis left on his body.
He busies himself with making his tea, his back to her. The clink of the spoon against the ceramic mug sounds unnaturally loud in the silence. He can feel her stare boring into him.
“Slept well?” Gemma asks, and the question is loaded with so much sarcasm that Harry almost flinches.
“Fine,” he mumbles, keeping his eyes on his task.
“Must have been an exhausting night,” she continues. “You were making quite a lot of noise. I’m surprised you didn’t wake the entire floor.”
Harry’s hand freezes on the counter. Heat floods his cheeks. He slowly turns around, mug in hand, and leans against the counter. He has no defense.
Gemma sets her own mug down with a sharp click. “I didn’t just hear you, Harry.”
She lets the statement hang in the air, watching him squirm.
“I saw you,” she says, her voice dropping, losing its sarcastic edge and becoming something harder, more serious. “I got up to get a glass of water. The living room door was open. I saw you on the couch with Louis.”
Harry’s blood runs cold. He feels the color drain from his face. He remembers the couch, the desperation, the way Louis had been inside him, the knot… Oh god, Gemma saw all that.
“How long?” Gemma asks, her gaze pinning him in place. “How long has this been going on? And don’t even think about lying through your teeth like you did in the car. Because we can walk back to that couch right now, and I’ll point to the big stain that’ll shut you up instantly. All those years on set, telling me you were just friends, that the shipping was nothing but fan nonsense… was any of it true?”
Harry opens his mouth, but no sound comes out. He feels trapped, a specimen under a microscope. He knows his face is giving everything away. The guilt, the exhaustion, the lingering pleasure.
Gemma leans forward, her voice lowering to a conspiratorial whisper, but it’s no less intense. “And the premiere, Harry. Everyone’s talking about it. Lottie was talking to me. She said she asked Louis, and he gave her some bullshit line about method acting, too, like it’s some rehearsed response from you two.” She pauses, her gaze searching his. “But it wasn’t just acting, was it?”
She delivers the final blow, the question he’s been dreading since the lights came up in that theatre. “The scene in episode three. The gossips that it was too real. That it wasn’t a silicone dick or camera tricks.” She looks him straight in the eye. “Was it real, Harry? Did he actually fuck you on set?”
And just like that, the last of Harry’s composure crumbles. He can’t lie to her, not when she’s seen so much, not when his body is still humming with the proof of it. The limp in his walk, the bruises, the faint, persistent throb in his cunt that screams of an Alpha’s possession. It’s all true.
He looks down at his bare feet, his shoulders slumping in defeat. He nods, a small, almost imperceptible movement.
“Yes,” he whispers, the word barely audible. “It was real.”
The confession hangs in the air between them, a truth so potent it changes everything. Harry finally looks up, bracing himself for her anger, her disgust, and her disappointment.
Instead, Gemma lets out a long, slow breath. She leans back in her chair, and the sternness on her face melts away, replaced by a look of profound, almost weary, understanding. A small, wry smile touches her lips.
“Well,” she says, picking up her tea again. “That explains a lot.”
The silence in the kitchen stretches, taut and thin. Gemma’s expression is a complex tapestry of shock and something else… something that looks unnervingly like awe. She takes another slow sip of her tea, her eyes never leaving Harry’s face.
“How long?” she asks, her voice softer now, the sharp edges gone. “How long has this… been going on?”
Harry shrugs, a gesture that feels both helpless and dismissive. He wraps his hands around his warm mug, the heat a small comfort. “The sex or the feelings?”
Gemma’s eyebrows shoot up. It’s the answer she wasn’t expecting, but the one that tells her everything she needs to know about the complexity of the situation.
Harry sighs, the sound heavy in the quiet room. “The sex started a few months ago. When we were prepping for the big scene in episode three. The director wanted… authenticity. We suggested we push the boundaries. We talked about it, and she agreed.” He pauses, a faint blush creeping up his neck. “After that… we just couldn’t stop. It was like a switch flipped.”
He can see Gemma processing this, her mind working. She looks down at her tea, then back at him. “Okay. So the first one was for the scene. But… the rest of the season? There are, what, two other major sex scenes in the last eight episodes?” She leans forward, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. “How many of them were real?”
Harry looks away, his gaze fixing on a spot on the wall. He can’t meet her eyes. The silence is his answer.
“Harry,” Gemma presses gently.
“There are four more and all of them,” he admits, the words barely audible. “Every single one.”
He finally risks a glance at her. Her mouth is slightly open, her eyes wide with disbelief. She looks utterly floored, but it’s not the anger Harry had braced himself for. It’s pure, unadulterated astonishment.
“All of them?” she repeats, as if the words themselves are foreign. “In a working TV series? With a crew? How?”
“Closed sets,” Harry mumbles. “Minimal crew. People we trusted. It was… reckless. I know.” He feels a fresh wave of guilt wash over him. “But it felt impossible to stop.”
They sit in silence for a long moment, the weight of his confession settling between them. Gemma stares into her empty mug as if she can find the answers there. Finally, she looks up, her gaze softening with a sisterly concern that makes Harry’s chest ache.
“And the feelings?” she asks quietly. “How about the feelings?”
Harry can’t look at her. He stares down into his own tea, watching the steam rise in delicate wisps. “Like, forever,” he says, the words feeling both like a relief and a confession. “Since the beginning, really.”
Gemma lets out a long, slow breath. “Oh, Harry.”
The pity in her voice is like a spark, and Harry feels a surge of defensiveness. He straightens up, his grip tightening on his mug. “Don’t ‘oh, Harry’ me,” he says, his voice gaining a bit of its strength back. “It wasn’t that simple. When we first met, back in season one, he was with Eleanor. He was happy. And even if he wasn’t, I wasn’t going to be that person. I wasn’t going to be the homewrecker, the one who made things awkward on set.”
He starts to pace, the faint ache in his muscles a constant reminder of last night. “And yeah, maybe my crush was obvious. Everyone saw it in the behind-the-scenes stuff, the interviews. I couldn’t help it. But I never did anything about it. I never crossed that line.” He stops, running a hand through his messy hair. “And sometimes… sometimes I thought he felt it too. His eyes would linger. He’d touch my arm, my back, and it would feel… different. More than friendly. But I couldn’t dwell on it, Gem. I couldn’t let myself hope.”
He turns to face her, his expression earnest and pleading for her to understand. “We were going to be co-stars for years. The fans were already linking our characters like crazy, even though Kael and Yarri hated each other’s guts. I had to protect my job, our friendship. It was self-preservation. I thought if I just kept it professional, if I just buried it deep enough, it would eventually go away.”
He gives a bitter, self-deprecating laugh. “So much for that plan. And then… then he and Eleanor finally broke up. It was right at the beginning of filming for season two.” He pauses, the memory a bitter one. “But by then, I was already with Zayn.”
Gemma’s expression shifts. “Hmm, Zayn. I remember him. That relationship was something, yes. His fans either hated you or loved you.”
Harry nods. “He had a small role that season. We met, and we just… clicked. He was fun, and he was interested. It felt easy.” He gives a wry, humorless smile. “Louis, of course, hated it on sight.”
He can still picture it so clearly. The way Louis’ jaw would tighten whenever Zayn was near. The forced smiles that didn’t reach his eyes. “He was so obvious about it. All in the name of ‘banter,’ of course. He’d tease Zayn about his music, make these little jokes in interviews that were just… sharp. Targeted. He tried to act all friendly, but you could feel the aggression rolling off him in waves.”
A small, genuine smile touches Harry’s lips for the first time that morning. “Zayn, bless him, understood immediately. He saw it for what it was. And instead of getting angry, he just… played along. He’d turn Louis’ teasing right back at him. He’d purposely put his arm around me in front of everyone, talk about our dates, how he was the one sneaking me into his trailer at night. He was showing off, staking his claim, and it drove Louis absolutely mental.”
He sighs, the memory of it exhausting him all over again. “And I’ll admit, I got a thrill out of it. Seeing Louis so possessive, so jealous… it was everything I’d secretly wanted. But it was also so draining. All that alpha posturing, the constant tension. It was exhausting. So when Zayn’s role was done and he had to go back on tour, we just… mutually decided to end it. No hard feelings. We had fun.”
He shakes his head, a faint laugh escaping him. “He even asked me if he could release the songs he wrote about our time together. They weren’t romantic, but they were certainly… descriptive.” Harry looks at Gemma, his eyes twinkling with mirth. “Louis absolutely hated those songs. Hated them.”
The smile fades as he moves on to the final, crucial piece of the story. “So then season three started. We were both single. And our characters… they were finally giving in. The sexual tension between Kael and Yarri was at its peak, and it was mirroring ours. Everyone could feel it.”
He sets his mug down, the ceramic clinking softly. “One night, it was just me and Louis. We were in my trailer, just drinking and talking, like we’d done a hundred times before. The conversation, of course, turned to the big sex scene. The one everyone was waiting for.”
He can still hear Louis’ voice that night, low and earnest over the rim of his whiskey glass. “People have been waiting for this for years, H,” Louis had said, his blue eyes intense in the dim light of the trailer. “I want to give it my all. I want to make it unforgettable.”
“And I agreed,” Harry tells Gemma, his voice soft with the memory. “I told him I did, too.”
Louis had leaned forward then, his elbows on his knees, the space between them shrinking. “I want to make it as real as possible,” he’d said, his voice dropping to a near-whisper. “No holding back. No faking it. Just… us. Giving them everything.”
Harry had felt his breath catch in his throat. He’d nodded, unable to speak, his heart hammering against his ribs. “I want that, too,” he’d managed to say.
And then their eyes had met, and the air had crackled with an unspoken understanding. The years of longing, the missed opportunities, the jealousy, the repressed desire. It was all there, laid bare between them in the smoky trailer. They weren’t just talking about Kael and Yarri anymore. They were talking about themselves.
“We didn’t even have to say it,” Harry says, his gaze distant. “We just knew. That was the night we decided. We hid behind our characters, but it was truly us. It was us finally giving in.” He looks at his sister, his expression raw and vulnerable. “It was the most reckless thing I’ve ever done. And I don’t regret it at all.”
The internet is a glorious, chaotic mess of praise. Harry is glued to his phone, scrolling through Twitter and Tumblr, a giddy warmth spreading through his chest. The fans who attended the premiere are losing their minds. The hashtags #BorderlinesS3 and #KaelAndYarriFinally are trending worldwide. They’re calling it the best sex scene ever recorded for television, a masterpiece of raw emotion and cinematic bravery. Post after post raves about its realism, how it eclipses every other steamy moment the show has ever delivered. Harry reads a comment that says, “You can’t fake chemistry like that. That wasn’t Kael and Yarri, that was Louis and Harry,” and he has to bite his lip to stop from grinning like an idiot.
He’s alone in the kitchen, the scent of frying bacon and sausages filling the air. He’s attempting a full English breakfast, a traditional send-off for Gemma, who’s in the guest room showering before her flight back to the UK. He’s just cracked eggs into the pan when strong arms suddenly circle his waist from behind, lifting him clean off his feet with a surprised squeal.
“Louis!” he giggles as he’s deposited on the cool granite countertop.
Louis is a glorious sight. He’s only in his boxers, his chest bare and his hair a soft, sleep-tousled mess. But his bright blue eyes are sharp and alert, and his grin is huge and boyish. He swoops in, pressing a minty-fresh kiss to Harry’s lips. He’s already brushed his teeth. Harry notes it with a flutter in his stomach. Louis steps between his legs, caging him in, his hands warm on Harry’s thighs.
“Morning, love,” Louis murmurs against his mouth before kissing him again, deeper this time.
The toast pops in the toaster, a loud ding, but Louis doesn’t stop. He kisses Harry relentlessly, his hands roaming up under the hem of his silk nightdress, mapping the skin of his back and sides. Harry clings to him, giggling into the kisses, his head spinning.
“Lou,” he gasps between kisses. “Breakfast… I’m making breakfast.”
Louis gives him one last, lingering kiss, his tongue tracing Harry’s bottom lip before pulling away. Then he’s lifting Harry again, setting him gently on his feet, his hands deliberately lingering to grope Harry’s ass. “You’re so fucking hot,” he says, his voice a low, appreciative rumble.
Harry flushes, his cheeks burning as he turns back to the stove. He can feel Louis’ eyes on him, a heavy, shameless stare that follows his every move as he finishes cooking. When the food is ready, he plates it up and carries it to the small table. Louis drags his chair impossibly close, so their knees are touching, and turns it to face Harry completely.
Harry starts to eat, but Louis just watches him, admiring, a soft smile playing on his lips. Harry flushes under the attention and tears off a piece of sausage, holding it to Louis’ lips. Louis accepts it readily, his eyes never leaving Harry’s face.
“The reviews are amazing,” Harry says softly, feeling the need to fill the comfortable silence. “Everyone’s raving about it.”
Louis hums in acknowledgement, chewing slowly. Then he leans forward and takes Harry’s face in his hands, kissing him softly, tasting the sausage on his lips. When they break apart, Louis’ expression is suddenly serious, his blue eyes searching Harry’s.
“Go out with me,” he says, his voice quiet but firm.
Harry blinks, his fork frozen halfway to his mouth. “What?”
“Go out with me,” Louis repeats. “As in, a date. Tonight. I already booked a place,” he adds, a little sheepishly. “Sorry to be so presumptuous, but I’ve waited literal years to take you out.”
Harry is speechless, his heart doing a frantic tap dance against his ribs. He just stares, his mouth slightly agape.
Louis seems to misinterpret his silence. He hesitates, his thumbs stroking Harry’s cheeks. “Look, I… I didn’t want to ask while we were filming, especially with… well, with how much we were having sex. I didn’t want you to think it was just about that. And after we wrapped, we stopped for a few months, and I had to go film that other project, and we just… I wanted to do this right. To ask you properly.” He takes a shaky breath. “Then last night, after the premiere… I couldn’t stop myself. I had to see you.” His eyes are pleading. “Will you, baby? Will you go out with me, please?”
A wave of pure, unadulterated happiness washes over Harry, so potent it makes him dizzy. His stomach is full of butterflies. He lets out a shaky giggle, feeling shy and giddy and overwhelmed all at once. He nods, his eyes wide. “Of course I will,” he whispers. “Of course I’ll go out with you.”
Louis’ face lights up, a brilliant, blinding smile. “Yeah?”
Harry nods again, more firmly this time, and Louis surges forward to kiss him, a joyous, triumphant kiss that tastes of bacon and a future he’s been dreaming of for years.
They’re lost in it until a pointed cough breaks them apart. Gemma is standing in the doorway, dressed and ready to go, a towel draped over her arm. She has one eyebrow raised, a look of profound amusement on her face.
“Is it going to be like this from now on?” she asks, her tone dry.
Louis is completely shameless. He turns his head, keeping his arm wrapped securely around Harry’s shoulders. “Not the worst thing you’ve seen probably, or known about us,” he says with a cheeky grin. “But yeah, I plan on spending my mornings kissing your brother from now on.”
Gemma pretends to gag, making a dramatic retching sound that has Harry laughing. But she’s smiling, a genuine, happy smile as she looks at them. “Well, there’s definitely a lot we should talk about,” she says, walking over to the table and dropping into a chair. “But first, we eat. My flight isn’t for hours.”
I dig your cinema.